26.3.14
A.
The Rules of the Game.
1. A
game of call and response. One person posts something in each of the three
strands. The other person responds with their own three posts, that are both
response to the last call, and a new call in themselves.
2. The
Three Strands are as follows: A: Analytical B: Autobiographical C: Fictional
3. On
the whole, the assumption is that Tamara provides text while Sue provides
images- generally in the form of photographs. But we can be fluid. Sue can post
text, Tamara can post images, in fact, either of us can post anything the site
is able to host, as long as it is always an honest response to the previous
posting.
4. We
attempt to respond in a timely fashion. We attempt to be understanding when
such timeliness isn’t easy.
B.
What I noticed first was that all three women were
beautiful. And also, that they were young. Not that young, just younger than
me. I live my life in a bubble, with my friends that I’ve known forever and the
other lovely mothers at the school. I don’t think I’ve sat down for a long
time, if ever, with people who were younger
than me, a whole generation down, and it was strange. I’ve been feeling old for
a while now but this is the first time I’ve seen it confirmed. Not that I’m
actually that old. Just old enough for there to be strata below me full of smart
lovely women in the middle of their work. A was a scientist. B was an artist. C
was a curator.
They began to talk about my website. We really didn’t know
each other so that was a good way in. They were surprised at its slightly
chatty feel. They found it unusual, and refreshing. It’s true I haven’t seen
any other artist’s website that uses language like mine. But I’ve done that
deliberately. It’s a kind of experiment: let’s see what happens if I simply try
to be completely honest. A, B and C talked about how unusual it was to see an
artist describing the difficulties of work and life as I did; the admission
that work stopped when Riva was born. And of course, what made us separate, as
much as age, if not more so, was the fact that none of them had children.
None of them seemed to be planning to either, though they
talked about what they would do if-
as though the phantom baby hovered somewhere in the air to be plucked down with
a butterfly net, or not, as the case may be. One of them said that simply doing
her job left her without time for anything else- she didn’t understand how
people managed with children. Another talked about the loss of the community as
extended family- how mothers weren’t ever meant to be doing it all on their own.
I was with her on that one. One described her colleague’s struggles with
childcare. Another talked about how babies weren’t really human till they were
two, how they were like larvae- born too soon with those over-large brains. If
only you could take them on later, when they were more interesting and ready
for some childcare. I told them how deeply alive, how full of feeling, how absolutely
human a newborn baby is, and continues to be. How interesting and magnificent. They
listened but I’m not sure they were convinced. Riva had been on the phone to me
in tears a few moments before. That morning I had dropped her off weeping at
school, and I still felt bereft and deeply sad.
It is hard to talk about the joy, about the blessing (I really
don’t worship my children, but the
nature of that joy is quasi religious) of having children. It’s hard to talk
about the joy without it sounding fake, sentimental, brainless and repulsive,
all the things it is actually the opposite off. With the other mothers you
don’t need to describe. From the outside you see parents regarding the
not-that-interesting activities of their offspring with the cliché of a ‘fond
smile’ and frankly, I can see how that might seem nauseating. But the initiated
can see what’s going on underneath, the miles and miles of root structure-
aching, endless, magnificent- deep in the dirt below the smile. How do you pass
that on? How to illuminate the thing beyond what’s so visible about being a
mother; the drudgery, the boredom, the limits on time and movement, the worry, the
tiredness, the compromise, the slapped down careers?
I couldn’t do it- I didn’t even try. And why should I? I
don’t need to evangelise childbearing. I never regretted it but I can see what
I lost. Magnificent, fulfilled and productive lives exist without children, and
when parents (particularly the newer ones) suggest to me that this isn’t the
case I always think they are trying to convince themselves, trying, by making
the alternative look barren, to comfort themselves in their confusions and
difficulty. I won’t let myself go there. But still, it was like a weird
apartheid, a radical separation that I felt between myself and A, B and C.
I don’t feel a bit better or wiser or anything-than A, B or
C. Mostly the opposite, sadly. And older. I remember saying pretty much
everything they said once, the thoughts rushing through my head like a stream over
pebbles, glinting with what seemed like truth but too fast moving to be really
examined. And why examine it anyway? It’s not relevant till it happens. I envy
those women their ability to let their work consume them, their ability to
think about what motherhood might be like with even a moment of certainty, and
then dismiss those thoughts and move on. I envy them the missing pain-shape
that a crying child inscribes.
I love my children and my husband, and I love the work I do,
I love it and I love the making of it. But even without children I doubt I would
be as successful an artist as B seemed to be. And here’s another of those
refreshingly honest things it might be unwise to be saying in public (not that
I can really bring myself to care about any of that): while I know my work to
be good I’m no good at all at trying to be out in the world
with it. Walking to the Underground Station after lunch with C she told me
about the programmes at the Institute she worked at. Should I have talked about
my work? Should I have asked if I could be a part? Of course I should. But I didn’t. I didn’t know what words to use or
how to get them out of my mouth without sounding like a 12 year old. I’ve never
understood how you close a deal and it makes me feel stupid. And besides, I
just wanted to get home and see Riva.
C.
In my application to CalArts the first words I wrote where
“I want to tell stories” but now I can’t seem to find any. I’ve got no stories
to give- so I’m going to plunder the past. I have had so many stories, and I
know now that very few, if any, of them will become the films I once dreamed
off. So here’s the start of a story I worked on at Cal Arts, but that actually
stretches back to the days when we lived together Sue, at Shakespeare Walk, and
I dreamt of Danny Cohen. My private title for it was MEDKX.
-
A girl and a boy, in their mid twenties. Let’s say they meet
at work. She likes him at once. She’s interested. But he’s in a relationship
so- ok- they become friends. They work together. They get on well. The project
ends. Perhaps they call each other a few times. Meet for a drink. But nothing
much. A little while later they work together again. Now he’s split up with his
girlfriend. Interesting. But he’s sad about it- too sad for her to think they
could have anything romantic together, so instead the friendship grows. And
grows. She never looses the feelings she has for him though, the not-friendship
feelings. And as time passes, he starts to have feelings for her. And maybe a
year or so on, at his instigation, the friendship becomes romantic- becomes
sexual. And she is delighted. She is over the moon.
For a while everything is lovely. They are friends, they are
lovers, it’s exactly what she’s imagined a relationship ought to be. It’s alive
and sparky. It’s fun. From almost the moment they met she had a sense that she
loved him. Now she knows it. And it looks like he loves her too. After about
six months they move in together and everything is great. Almost.
There’s just one thing. She can’t stop thinking about his ex
girlfriend. The one he was with when they met. The one who left him, and made
him so sad. Would he be so sad if I left, she wonders. Somehow, she thinks he
wouldn’t, and the idea is unbearable. She can’t shake it. Perhaps he isn’t over
her, the ex. Perhaps he still loves her. Perhaps he loves her more than me.
The relationship they have is open and good. It isn’t long
before she tells him what she’s thinking. He tells her it isn’t true. That girl
is part of the past. She is the one he wants now. She is the one he loves. He
believes this, but she can’t. Not quite. And suddenly things aren’t so lovely.
He feels frustrated and hurt at her refusal to believe what he says. She feels
betrayed, even though she knows he hasn’t done anything. She is consumed with
the fear that he will leave her for this other woman, and nothing he can say
will convince her otherwise. As the shadow grows, their relationship starts to
wilt. The memory of how lovely it was and the strength of their genuine friendship
makes them try to work things out, but neither knows how to navigate around
this impasse.
Then, one day they are out for a walk. It’s spring time. The
trees are in blossom and when the wind blows the blossom falls down like snow.
Someone calls his name and they turn. It’s her, the ex girlfriend. She is with
a group of friends who hang back as she goes to talk to him. He’s still holding
her hand, her, the girl he’s with now, but he seems unaware of her existence as
he talks to his ex. He doesn’t even introduce her. It’s very clear. She was
right. Whether he knew it or not, he isn’t over that girl. He isn’t over her at
all.